A Daughter No Longer

I’m in town for the week

to visit her for Mother’s Day.

Today I take her to the beach—

a place she’s been wanting to go for a while.

We spend a couple of hours sitting in the sand

making small talk about past, present, and future.

Then she turns her eyes on me with suspicion.

“Are you Andy’s sister?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“Oh!” she exclaims.  “That means . . .”

She hesitates, then nods sagely.

“I’m your mother.”

I smile at her.

“Yes, you’re my mother.”

She thinks for a moment

then slips into her mother tongue.

“Wie bin ich mit dir umgegangen?”—

How did I deal with you?

Being a good mother

was always so important to her.

And she made sure her children knew

how they were supposed to treat a good mother.

Now the family tie seems irrelevant.

She knows my name

and that I call every Sunday at 3.

She knows I pay her bills

and take her to doctor and dental appointments.

She knows I’m the one

who made her the memory chart

to remind her which medications to take when.

She knows she can call me for help

and I won’t make her feel bad

for being confused or forgetting things.

Now I’m the friendly face and voice

that checks in with her

and helps when she needs something.

And what she needs right now

is to know what kind of mother she was.

I hesitate, but just for a moment.

This is not the time for a full accounting.

And it never will be again.

I put my arm around her shoulder.

“You did a good job.”